The Welcome Intrusion
by Spike Daft
Summary: Liza meets an a guest waiting for her in her apartment,, but inn light of the usual fear she felt from him, decides to do something else entirely. NSFW


Liza returned to her apartment after a strenuous and frustrating day in the company of Carmine Falcone. She had been waiting for, even expecting, the old man to make a move on her. She invariably left his mansion to return to her dingy apartment, relieved to have pleased him with mundane activities, but her loins burning for something he could not—would not—give.

On this day she was particularly riled up, horny, frustrated , and just a bit angry. She hadn't bothered to check in with Fish. She had had enough of the woman for at least a week's sake. She shoved at the door, a test of tampering, and was mildly surprised when it swung open, the locked shredded. Steeling herself for the worst, she pushed the door open all the way, the small pistol she carried with her securely in hand.

None other than Oswald Cobblepot, dressed impeccably as usual, sat upon her queen-size bed. Even upon seeing the pistol pointed at his heart, he laughed softly. It was, to say the least, disarming. Nothing like what he had offered in the past. Friendly even, with an edge of smoke to it.

"Hello, Liza," he said, his voice the same tone as though he had been meeting a good friend in the park. "I do trust that you're well. You look well," he said, and sniffed the air to catch her scent. His hand almost reached out to touch her mohair jacket, but he restrained.

"I'm fine. I'm good," she retorted, scared half to death but at the same time taking the pretty, smaller man in as though he were an oasis in a desert teeming with want.

She crossed the room to pour herself a large glass of brandy. She offered the cup to Oswald, who politely waved it away.

"So," she said, "I'm sure you're here to snoop on me and threaten me again."

"On the contrary," the young man replied. "I've heard from…sources… that you're terribly frustrated with your current…predicament; your _situation_, with Don Falcone, if you will. I have come to aid you, in Fish's honor, thought she knows nothing of it."

Liza put a trembling hand on her hip. "And what predicament would that be, exactly? I know my job. I know what's expected of me, and I do it."

"Ah," said Oswald softly. "But what do _you_ expect, Liza? What thirst do you possess that has not been quenched?"

She flushed furiously. The man was good at reading people, down to their deepest and darkest places. She found herself experiencing a kind of admiration, but after the brandy, her control was slipping. She was losing herself in his glacial eyes.

"_I_ think," he continued," that you play the whore for a man who neglects to touch you. You go through the archetypal motions, but he never invites you to his bed, does he?" He _tskd_. "What a terrible shame."

Liza felt her nether region instantly go wet, against her will. _Was it, though? Was it against her will_?

"I don't trust you, Mister Cobblepot," she hissed, but was unable to keep the excitement from her tone. "You're…you're a bad man. A crafty, unloving man. A _dirty man_…" She trailed off, embarrassed, not meaning to say the last thing she had uttered. Cobblepot eyes, however, fixed on hers and glittered with a importance that she could not decipher.

But the scotch had quickly gone to her head, imbibed on an empty stomach. She crossed the room to where Oswald sat on the low bed, and before she could stop herself she found her hands on his afce, stroking smooth, pale cheeks, running a thumb tenderly and reverently across his lips, and slipping an errant hand down and beneath the front of his perfectly tailored suite.

Oswald could not suppress a gasp at this attention, of which he had never before felt. "Liza…"

"Shhh," she whispered, and suddenly left this side, moving to retrieve a wooden chair that sat across the room. She dragged it over noisily. "You've got a bum leg, pet; that much is obvious. I don't want to hurt you. Here," she said, grabbing his elbow and helping him to his feet. Within minutes, they were both utterly undressed; Oswald nervous and Liza feeling on top of the world. She would control this jackal. If she could control him, she could control anyone.

She sat him down in the chair, Oswald squirming a bit beneath the chill of the bare wood. As he trembled, he watched her retrieve two pair of glittering handcuffs from a seemingly innocuous underwear drawer. He watched her intently, already erect, and decided not to fight when she decided to strap him down.

She used the first cuffs to latch around his skinny ankles, tenderly stroking his mangled leg, which sent a thrill of pain and pleasure through him that he had never thought he would procure from such a horrific injury. A moan eased from his throat, raw with pleasure, begging for more, and Liza smiled up at him.

"You like that, do you?" she inquired in a raw tone, and all he could do was pant and nod.

When she locked the other pair of cuffs to his wrists, binding him immovable to the chair, and was able to grin at her with his best, most tempting expression. "So, it's you that's in control now. How very becoming…"

Liza dove forward as soon as he finished speaking, and locked her lips with his, tasting mint and tobacco and something wild; irony, untamed. This taste, Oswald's own personal flavor, intoxicated her more than she had ever been in her life. She ran her hands across his skinny ribs, and then lower, eliciting a mournful moan and a gasp as she reached his most intimate parts. He drew in a breath sharply, that breath coming hard and fast, and Liza, despite her perceived control, found herself matching him. She suckled down his torso, drawing her sharp nails across his flesh until he gasped with pain, and let his head fall to one side as he watched her.

It didn't take long for Liza to succumb to him utterly, to pass her recent frustrations, , and she lowered herself onto him and began a frenetic, bruising pace that left them both gasping for air and groping blindly for one another. She had utter control over this man, the man who had threatened her with death upon the neglect off her duties. He had made her cry once, but the tears she wept now were merely the overwhelming product of physical pleasure; the vintage of the turning of tables, like a sweet Muscato. She darted forward, still rocking, and bit deeply into his neck, immediately tasting blood flowing over her lips. Cobblepot choked and whimpered, but instead of pulling away he let his tousled head rest against her forehead, panting that delightful flavor into her open, bloody mouth.

The affair lasted roughly an hour, and had left them both utterly exhausted. Liza leaned forward against Oswald, still impaled upon him, and he in turn rested a weary head upon her breast. She could feel his breath ghosting against her nipple, making it stiff. He seemed on the verge of passing out, blood still flowing down to his collarbone and puddling there.

She suckled his chest again, licking and sucking, paying careful attention to lap up the blood on his collarbone. "Mmmm," she murmured. "Sweet…"

"Fuck you," he whispered in response, and she smiled against his pale skin. She knew he recognized where that statement had come from.

As his head at long last lolled limply to the side, Liza got up off of him and went to her bureau, retrieving the keys to the hand cuffs. Without a word or a shred of tenderness, she unlocked his bindings, freeing him. Slipping on a nightgown, she turned to him.

"Get dressed," she ordered. "It's time to go. People will become suspicious."

Oswald did as he was told, with a grogginess as though he had been drugged, and fixed his impeccable suit with nary a crease, looking again as dapper as he had been before entering Liza's apartment.

He turned towards the door, and paused with his hand on it. "I do surely hope you're feeling sated now," he remarked, and slipped out the door before Liza could find something to throw at him.


End file.
